Delivery for Mr Holmes
by BritLitChick
Summary: Sherlock has the cabbie's pills analyzed. Was he right? His explanation for his reaction to the lab results stuns John. Rated T for references to past drug use. Author's notes on my profile page for those interested. This story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

"Delivery for Mr. Holmes," the courier said, presenting his clipboard for a signature as Dr. John Watson and Mr. Sherlock Holmes arrived back at the flat. Sherlock glanced at the packet the man held. Suddenly animated, he plucked it from the man's grasp, turned, unlocked the flat, and disappeared up the stairs without breaking stride.

John sighed. "Here, I'll sign for it," he said, taking the clipboard.

Upstairs, John expected to find Sherlock eagerly perusing the delivery's contents. Instead, he found his friend seated at the desk, the large envelope unopened before him, so still that John immediately knew that the envelope must contain something important.

"Sit down, John," Sherlock said quietly.

Something in Sherlock's voice made John begin to give the situation his full attention. "What's that?" he asked. "Something you expected?"

"Yes. For some time now. A Class A analysis can take up to several months," Sherlock said. He picked up the envelope and turned it so that John could see the address.

"Lestrade's office?" John said.

"Yes, forensic toxicology report," Sherlock replied.

"What were they running for you? Not crime scene evidence, surely, those results can't be sent to private citizens."

"Exactly crime scene evidence," Sherlock replied, his gaze back on the envelope before him. "However, there won't be a prosecution in this case, so Lestrade authorized his office to send me a summary of the results. Of course, I'm sure he had no idea why it might be important."

"And why might it be important?" John asked, impatiently, when Sherlock was silent for half a minute.

"These are the results from the evidence taken at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College." Sherlock's voice was still quiet, almost emotionless.

"Where?" John asked, trying to remember.

"Where the cabbie and I had our … conversation," Sherlock answered. _He can't take his eyes off that envelope_, John thought.

_No prosecution. Of course, the cabbie was dead._ "Sherlock," John said carefully, "What did that cabbie say to you, that you were going to risk taking that pill? You've never told me."

"And you've asked four times, yes, I know," Sherlock said. "It was … private. But I'll tell you now," he added, sighing. He appeared to be speaking with some effort. "I promised myself that I would tell you, and then open this envelope in your presence."

John stared at his friend. Wordlessly, he nodded, listening.

"The cabbie was extraordinarily brilliant, in that he knew exactly what to say to each of his victims, to press them where they were … weak," Sherlock began. "In my case as well, he was able to pinpoint my weakness, spot on." _He's admitting "weakness"_, John thought. _This really is serious._

"My weakness, John," Sherlock said, in answer to John's unasked question, "the weakness the cabbie knew because he suffered from it himself, is that I will do anything – _anything_ – to keep from being bored." He looked directly at John.

"Bored?" John said, taken aback. "But everyone gets bored, sometimes. That's just, well, life."

"No! Being bored, it's not the same thing at all, not for me!" Sherlock insisted, agitated. "Most people go through life half-asleep, eyes shut, brain off, dull, dull, dull! They _want_ life to be that way; they ignore anything potentially interesting even if it is right in front of them! Bored is their default condition and they are _satisfied_ with it! They don't _see_ what I _see_, or want to _know_ like I need to _know_. Life can be fascinating, incredible – when I am "on fire" for something, I live, truly live, more than anyone else I've ever met ever does!" _Well, that's certainly true_, John thought.

"But," Sherlock continued, subsiding, "that is rare … soul-killingly rare. In the meantime I endure unimaginable boredom. Oh, I get things done, my experiments, my music, a few cases, but only once a year or so do I feel I am actually alive. No," he corrected himself thoughtfully. "More often now, since you came, since your blog has been bringing in better cases. Remember that," he said, clearly to himself, eyes closed and fists pressed against his forehead. "More often now."

"So, the cabbie, what did he say, about this weakness of yours?" John asked, truly worried for Sherlock now.

"It was a game," Sherlock said, looking up. "Seldom, so seldom, does someone on my intellectual level propose a game that I want to play." John's eyes flicked to the chessboard, where he and Sherlock had a game going, one move a day. "Not that kind of game," Sherlock said, dismissively, "And, no disrespect, but a completely different calibre of opponent, one who operates at a very, very high level. Real time. Real … stakes."

John swallowed his retort. _This isn't about me_, he thought. _Just listen._ When he didn't speak, Sherlock continued, "There were two bottles. Two pills. One containing poison, one safe. I was to choose one, he was to take the other, and then we were both to swallow them."

John gaped. "That's a game?" he said, astonished. "A high-level, 'brilliant' game?"

"Elegant, isn't it?" Sherlock said wistfully, remembering. "Beautiful in its simplicity. Only what was necessary present, and that completely sufficient. Plus the element of time, and the stakes of course, to make it exciting."

"So, you were about to take the pill for a _game_?" John said, aghast. "A pill that might contain a fast-acting, lethal poison?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, simply.

John stared. Finally, he asked, "And did you choose the correct pill?" Sherlock's eyes dropped to the envelope. "Oh. I see. You're about to find out if you were right."

"Vindicated, or … defeated," Sherlock agreed. "On the only battlefield I care about."

John looked back at him, truly alarmed now. "And if you're wrong?" he demanded. "What then?"

"It's extremely unlikely I am wrong. However, there is always some margin for error," Sherlock said. "That's why I've asked you to be here when I open it, as a … precaution."

John considered. "What are you likely to do," he said, directly, "if it turns out that you have indeed been wrong?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, honestly. "It's never been this important to me before."

A long moment passed. Then John said, "All right. When you're ready." He got up and walked over to the desk.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock turned his attention to the envelope. With deliberate motions, he sliced the envelope open and pulled out the report. He glanced rapidly at the contents of the two pages, and then placed them slowly, gently, on the desk. Mechanically, he got up. John placed a hand on his arm as he walked by, but dropped it as Sherlock continued, unseeing, and stood at the window, looking out.

"I was wrong," Sherlock whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock," John said, stopping as the detective, still with his back toward the room, held up a hand, then dropped it. John waited, watchful and ready. They stood like that, in silence, for a few minutes. When Sherlock still didn't move, John went quietly to his chair and seated himself, eyes on his friend. _I know I don't understand, Sherlock, but I'll be here, as long as it takes._ A half hour passed in silence. Finally Sherlock spoke, his back still to John.

"You have no idea, John, how many times I have replayed that night in my mind," he said. "Every possible angle, every observation, every deduction, I have chased down and confirmed. Every bit of it indicates that I was right. It all hangs together. I just went over it again now. I could _not_ have been wrong. Yet," he gestured listlessly toward the envelope without looking at it. "I was wrong."

"Couldn't it be a mistake? Anderson, for instance," John began.

"Was on still back at the flat, packing up," Sherlock interrupted, turning to face John. "And you'll remember that I allowed no one into the classroom that night until Lestrade and the evidence crew arrived with their collection supplies. Lestrade came in with me, to protect the crime scene, but I collected the pills myself. You can be sure that I marked each bag very, very carefully."

John thought. "What about the handling and the processing, then?"

"I had a word with Lestrade. I emphasized that the chain of custody was essential in this case. He agreed and took charge of the evidence personally. I think he was actually embarrassed about the raid on the flat and wanted to make it up to me. He's seen to it that it has been handled with the highest possible protocol, with no chance of the pills being mixed up accidentally. I asked for a Class A analysis, so there is no possibility of a lab error. The samples have each been checked with gas-liquid chromatography, mass spectrometry, various reagents, scanning electron microscope, and with radiological equipment. Biological components, had there been any, would have undergone suitable testing depending on the type. The tests confirm one another. I expressly instructed that I not be informed of preliminary results. I wanted to be absolutely sure, to hear only the final conclusion, once. I've been waiting for it for months." He turned back to the window.

"Well," John said, "Could the cabbie have switched the bottles after you decided which was the safe one?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and said, patiently, "Yes, John, and of course he did. There was a moment when I had gotten up from the table and was pretending that I was going to walk out. I had my back turned to the cabbie." He paused.

"And?"

"As expected, I heard the cabbie switch the bottles. I also saw him do it in the reflection from the door window. It was a forced move in our little game. I made my final determination, made my final choice. Then I returned to the table and snatched up the bottle I wanted. He was quite intrigued by my selection, as I recall. Not too long after, we were ready to, as he put it, 'take our medicine'."

"Good thing you didn't," John said. "I'm glad you were wrong. You would have died."

"No, John, I wouldn't have," Sherlock said softly.

John looked sharply at his friend's back. "What?"

"The pill I was holding was the safe one. I meant to take the other."


	3. Chapter 3

John was speechless. When he found his voice, he meant to shout, but he choked on the word as it came out. "What?" he managed. _You __meant__ to take the poisoned one?_

Sherlock turned and walked to his favorite chair. He sat in it, steepling his fingertips. He pressed them to his lips thoughtfully.

"Remember what was happening that evening, John," he said. "Lestrade and his people had invaded the flat."

"Um, yes, you were quite put out with him, as I remember," John said, struggling to focus on the continuing conversation and for a normal tone of voice. _My God, Sherlock. _

"He was pressuring me, accusing me of withholding evidence," Sherlock said, frowning at the memory. "And having all of his people handle my things, ruin my experiments, rummage through my papers."

"You _were_ withholding evidence," John responded, remembering. "You ought to treat that man with more respect, Sherlock. Your – _our_ - livelihood depends on him agreeing to let you in on cases, to have access to crime scenes. You need him."

Sherlock smiled. "The man needs _me_, God help him. He was just messing with me, trying to put me in my place with a petty power play. Unfortunately, however," he said, serious again, "although he didn't know it, he really _was_ about to find evidence of illegal drug use."

"Yes, you told me later it was a marijuana sample that you were analyzing for a case. I chose to believe you. It wasn't marijuana, though, was it, and it wasn't just a crime scene sample," John said, searching Sherlock's face. Sherlock didn't answer. "What were you using," John asked levelly. "What _are_ you using?"

"It doesn't have a name, only a long chemical formula," Sherlock replied.

"It's known by a chemical formula?" John asked, surprised.

"No, John, it's not 'known' at all, except by me, and I don't have a name for it," Sherlock snapped. At John's look, he said, impatiently, "Yes, John, it's a drug of my own invention, of my own manufacture."


	4. Chapter 4

_This is certainly a night for revelations_, John thought wildly._ What the hell next?_

"I tried pretty much everything available, starting as a teenager," Sherlock explained. "I needed something to help me keep up with myself. And, occasionally, to escape myself. Nothing was powerful enough in the right ways, and always there were too many side effects. Street drugs, having been prepared by criminals, were also often impure, dangerous. I came to understand that my mind was at risk, as well as my life. So, while I was at Cambridge I audited fourth-year medical chemistry courses and figured out how to make my own, in the labs at night. It was the work of several years to perfect it, but now I have an optimum formula. It's quite effective. Unfortunately I was unable to completely eliminate its addictive characteristics. Also, some of its precursor ingredients are Class A controlled substances under the Misuse of Drugs Act of 1971."

"And here I was, worried you were exposing yourself to too much nicotine," John said, shaking his head in wonder. In silent answer, Sherlock pulled up his sleeve to show the patch he was wearing. Watching John, he pulled it off and proffered his arm for inspection. Even from his chair several feet away, John could see the telltale red marks and scars, many of them, clustered in an oval slightly smaller than the patch. _Oh, Sherlock, _John thought.

"If ever I wanted to be rich, I could easily sell it, but of course I made only enough for my personal use," said Sherlock, finishing.

"Of course," John said, flatly.

Sherlock looked directly back at John for many seconds. Then he said, abruptly, "I often say that I do not care what others think. Also, that there are no heroes, and that if there were, I wouldn't be one of them. Yet, as I tell you all this, your reactions..." He stopped awkwardly, and then continued. "You've learned that I can be wrong, and that I don't handle it well. You are distressed to learn that I attempted suicide. You're repelled that I used my talents and the resources of Cambridge University to create a custom recreational drug. You are dismayed to know that I am an addict of it. You're starting to be worried that I am risking arrest because of it.

"But more than that, you are … disappointed. I'm not all that you thought I was. I feel that, John, and I find that I care. Your good opinion of me … it _matters_." With this last, his voice sounded strained. He looked away. "No, don't answer. Please. You didn't know me, in the time before we met. I was worse … much worse. It wasn't just the raid, wasn't just the drugs - I was well on my way to suicide long before Lestrade let Anderson across my threshold." He looked up. " However, I imagine you'll be relieved to hear that I don't feel that way now, and haven't for some time. "

John was silent a moment, and then spoke. "Sherlock." At first his friend did not look at him, but John waited. Finally Sherlock returned his gaze.

"Sherlock, about what I think of you, all that is true, to some extent. Knowing you, I won't try to lie. But –" he leaned forward, earnestly. "I'm not thinking right now about your being wrong or on drugs. I'm thinking of _you_. You want my good opinion, Sherlock? Here it is, here's what _matters_: you are the most amazing, incredible person I have ever met. I can hardly believe you're real. You've made _me_ want to live, and believe me, after Afghanistan, that was in doubt when we first met. You drive me mad with some of the things you say, but truly, I'm honored to be associated with you. And, after what you've told me, I _still_ feel that way. Sherlock, if ever you think … if ever you feel suicidal again, well, you've got to talk to me, that's all. You know I'll help." He looked at Sherlock intently.

Sherlock regarded his friend with new eyes. "I … have no idea … what to say to that," he said finally.

'Thank you," prompted John.

" 'Thank you', right," Sherlock quickly agreed. "Thank you, John," he said again, meaning it this time.

Sherlock gathered himself, and then continued. "Well, anyway, Donovan, there in the kitchen, was looking right at it, right at the materials and equipment I used to make it. Dull as usual, she didn't comprehend what she saw, but she and her people were taking swabs of every surface. They must have collected incriminating residue. The toxicology lab –" he gestured toward the envelope, "— wouldn't have recognized the drug immediately, but they would have been able to determine its properties in short order. Meanwhile Anderson, rummaging, was perilously close to stumbling on the remains of the last batch."

John glanced at the kitchen cabinets. "False back on the last one," Sherlock told him. "In any case, I was moments away from arrest for possession at least, manufacture probably. They might also have accused me of selling. My career as a consulting detective, as _anything_, would have ended ignominiously, on a common drugs bust. A long prison sentence to start with – and you know I have many 'friends' there - and no prospects afterward; I would have had to slink back to Mycroft for help. In fact, I have been on tenterhooks for weeks, wondering when they would be back for me. Apparently, however, the evidence they collected was never actually examined."

"Donovan did say she thought they had all wasted their time here. She seemed annoyed. Maybe she'd figured out that Lestrade didn't actually expect to find anything. They might still have it tucked away somewhere, though," John said warningly. "In case you step out of line again. The police must know they won't have a second chance to catch you out with evidence from the flat."

"Well, they'd have to look much harder," Sherlock allowed.

John leaned forward, angrily. "A scare like that, and you are _still_ using! My God, man, what would it take? I live here too, you know, and I don't much care to be arrested on a drugs charge!"

"No, John, I'm not," Sherlock said, quietly insistent. "Look at the marks."

John looked closely at his friend, and then examined Sherlock's arm again. "None of them fresh," he said finally, sitting back. "Newest perhaps a week old."

"Ten days ago was my last hit, a tiny one, while you were at your sister's. I was actually already weaning myself off of it when Lestrade's people came through. The prospect of sharing a flat with a doctor … I knew I wouldn't be able to hide an addiction for long, and it was well past time to get clean, well, legally clean, anyway. The nicotine worked well enough on its own. The raid came at an inopportune time. Thinking it over later, that 'scare', as you call it, certainly solidified my resolution. In any case, the only thing left now would be traces I might have missed."

He resumed his narrative. "Well, when the cabbie arrived and revealed that he possessed the pink mobile, I realized that he was our murderer, and also what would happen if I went with him as he suggested. He would somehow invite me to suicide, and I, facing imminent ruin… I would accept."

_Suicide by murder. My God, Sherlock. _ "But the case, you were so excited by pursuing the case of the lady in pink. You were 'on fire' then, weren't you? It was indecent, how delighted you were as we went along. And you'd just solved it! Weren't you in heaven?"

"An appropriate time to end it all, wouldn't you think? Go out at the top of my game," Sherlock replied reasonably.

"But I stopped you," John said, soberly. "With my shot."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "That changed everything."


	5. Chapter 5

"Changed? How?" John asked. _Other than getting you to not swallow that pill._

"You remember our conversation in the restaurant, earlier in the evening?" Sherlock said.

John thought a moment. " 'It's all fine,' " he said warily.

"And so it is," Sherlock said, "or would be, if it were relevant. To my current point, it's not. What _is_ relevant is that I also told you I was married to my work. That's another way of saying that not only did I not care for anyone, male or female, but also that no one cared for me, on any level, except perhaps for Mycroft, and that's just duty. And then, completely unexpectedly, someone took extreme action on my behalf, voluntarily, at great risk to himself. Someone clever enough to grasp the essentials of the situation, yet decisive enough to proceed with lethal force without having the time to gather full information to be sure."

_Yes, Afghanistan will do that to a person_, John thought, but didn't say. Sherlock was looking steadily at him.

"That night, I … I received incontrovertible evidence that someone cared about me, clearly felt something other than simple admiration for my intellect mixed with a strong aversion to my personality. It was interesting, entirely novel. Certainly not _boring_. I briefly considered taking the poisoned pill anyway, before anyone else could arrive, but I couldn't ignore this new idea. I had to explore the possibility of an area of human existence that until now has been completely closed to me. I decided to … postpone … my exit."

John, stunned, was unable respond at first. "So," he said at last, "Summing up. You weren't risking your life on the chance the pill you had deduced was safe might be poisoned after all. Instead, you _meant_ to suicide, because you thought you were about to lose everything, because of the badly-timed drugs raid. You were about to take the pill you thought was poisoned to do it, when my shot –" he glanced at his friend, "- 'changed everything'. You decided to live, to find out what having a friend was like. The lab results show that you would have lived in any case, even if my shot had been a moment too late. Lestrade backed off, the case was solved, you're clean, and now we're friends. So, what, exactly, is the problem?"

"Yes, it would have been poignant, had I been right, taken a lethal pill and then witnessed your shot as I died," Sherlock said. "Deciding to live, even at the risk of being arrested, was certainly the correct choice. I have been grateful for your company and assistance," he said. John raised his eyebrows. "I mean … and I do mean, truly ... for your friendship," Sherlock corrected himself. "You see that I'm still learning to use the word, as something I experience personally."

"It's the being wrong, though, isn't it," John said, finally understanding.

"Yes. Precisely. The 'being wrong'. Such a simple phrase, and I don't believe even you understand its staggering implications for someone like me, worse than being bored," Sherlock replied. "The cabbie saw what was happening in the apartment when he arrived. From that, my coming along without trouble, and our conversation later, he must have deduced that I was ready to end it all. To someone with his skills of perception, I must have been almost radiating the request. He would have let me, too, to collect on the money for his children, but then I – somehow – picked up the 'good' pill by mistake. He was left with the pill he knew to be 'bad'. That was even better, though. He must have been quite satisfied to take it, because he has dying anyway and he knew that he had won. We had matched wits, each played our best, I was wrong, and he knew it then, although I've only just found out. He knew I would have to live with my failure."

"He was ready to go out at the top of his game," John said.

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. He took that from me. His death, the final, triumphant move. No possible rematch."

"You really would have killed yourself, leaving him to kill again?" John said.

Sherlock said, "Check my inside coat pocket, John. It's still there." John looked at him, and then went to check the coat. He drew out a small slip of paper, with lines of Sherlock's precise handwriting. "It's my note. Isn't that what people do?"

_The cabbie is the murderer. He knows each of his victim's weaknesses, and plays upon them until they are eager to take the poison he provides. He knows mine, too. Please give Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft my apologies for any inconvenience my death causes._

"I wrote that while riding in his cab. I knew it would be found when my body was examined," Sherlock said. "I did want the credit for the case; I didn't want Lestrade thinking of me as just another hapless victim. As it's happened, he has thanked me quite earnestly, several times, for solving it."

"Why can't you cut yourself some slack? Everyone's wrong, sometimes, even you. 'Harriet'," John reminded his friend.

Sherlock sighed. "A minor slip, a detail in an otherwise excellent chain of deduction. It wasn't important, and I was preoccupied at the time. But that night, sitting at the table with the cabbie, that was Sherlock Holmes in top form. I still can't figure out where I went wrong, how I messed up getting myself murdered. With that staring me in the face –" he indicated the reports from the envelope, "—I don't know who I am anymore, not really. Now I will never trust my abilities again. I will always doubt."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock, wearing pajamas and a dressing gown, was at the window again. He played a phrase on his violin, played it again, and then turned to the score he had propped up on the stand to make a note.

_He's been there for hours_, John thought as he came in. _Five in the morning I heard that violin start up._ To Sherlock, he said, cheerfully, "You're up early."

Sherlock didn't look up. He merely replied, "No. Up late." He played another phrase on his violin. It was clear he didn't want conversation. John saw Sherlock's dinner from the night before on the nearby desk. It was untouched.

Later, at the station, John regarded Inspector Gregory Lestrade across a messy desk. "Thanks for coming in, John, " the inspector began. "Nothing's wrong, I just wanted to ask after Sherlock. Where is my consulting detective? I've given up trying to call or text his mobile, and he won't see me when I come round the flat." _Here we go_, John thought._ Let's see if I can keep Sherlock on his good side._

"_Your_ detective?" John said, genially. "So he's on staff now, is he?"

"If only," Lestrade said, fervently. "No, wait, what am I saying, what a disaster that would be," he corrected himself, laughing. "That man answers to no one, least of all me. And there'd be murder between him and Anderson, the first week. But, in any case, what is he doing? Working on a murder case I don't know about yet? Wouldn't be the first time, unfortunately."

"No. He's not taking cases at all." _Nor eating nor sleeping, as far as I can tell._ John strove for a casual tone. "He's been quite ill. He's had to take it easy. It's hard for a man like him to be idle, cooped up in the flat. He's been down about it, and more than a little difficult, if you know what I mean." He smiled.

"I can imagine," Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "Tell him I'm sorry to hear it, and my condolences to you, too, John, for having to put up with him even more than usual. Oh, I meant to ask - did he get those toxicology results he was so keen on? I knew he'd been waiting for them for weeks. They must have cheered him up, at least a little."

_Not exactly. Rather the opposite._ "Yes," John said, "I meant to say, Sherlock sends his heartfelt thanks. He realizes a Class A analysis wasn't really in your budget, but he says that it was worth it." _A white lie to smooth your way back with Lestrade, Sherlock. Someday you'll see he's really on your side._

"Happy to be of service. Ring me up when he looks like he might like to take a look at some cases, would you? I'm getting a backlog."

As they ate later that evening, Sherlock said, "Thank you, John, for fending Lestrade off for me today. He practically thinks of me as absent without leave if I don't answer my mobile."

"That would never work, would it, being on staff," John smiled over his plate. "You'd have to kill Anderson."

A moment of silence passed as they both tried to imagine Sherlock on Lestrade's staff. Then, Sherlock chuckled. "The first week," he agreed, smiling._ Maybe he's coming out of it._ Sherlock asked, "And what did the good Inspector have to say?"

"Nothing really, just asked after you. I told him you were very ill, not working on cases right now. I'm to call him when you're ready for more work. Oh, and he wanted to make sure you'd gotten the lab results he sent. He thought they would cheer you up, you'd had to wait so long. I told him you sent your thanks, don't forget that when you see him again." When Sherlock didn't answer, John looked up at him in surprise. His friend had frozen, eyes unseeing. Sherlock slowly lowered his fork to the table.

_Mind palace. That's got to be a good sign. I think._ Quietly, John settled in his chair to wait. He watched unobtrusively as Sherlock performed the kinesthetic techniques that helped him navigate his mental landscape. He knew Sherlock could be hours, tracing back pieces and parts of memories and integrating them into a whole.

However, after only a few minutes, Sherlock seemed to come around. He looked incredulously at John.

"What is it? What's wrong?" John asked.

"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock murmured. "Not wrong." He leapt away from the table and grabbed John's shoulders. John, alarmed, looked into Sherlock's eyes – and saw joy. "John … I wasn't wrong. I was _right_, all along, I'd chosen the poisoned pill, and I would have died!" He beamed at the doctor.

"Um, yes, good news, right," John stammered as Sherlock released him. "And, um, not to sound skeptical, but how do you know this? There's a Class A analysis that says otherwise," he said, gesturing at the envelope still on the desk.

Sherlock ran over to the desk and snatched up the envelope. He waved it in the air triumphantly. "In the poisoned pill, potassium cyanide and sodium cyanide mixture, very straightforward. _And_ the Class A analysis also showed a uniquely identifiable concentration of radioactive tritium tracer. The ten metal plating shops in London have been testing a new programme of using the tracers as a supply chain security measure, but they hadn't told the police about it yet. The CCTV footage from that shop will certainly show my cabbie collecting his supplies, Lestrade must be having it analyzed now. The timing of the footage and further analysis of blood samples taken from the victims will positively link the cabbie to the earlier murder-suicides. Now those cases can be definitively closed."

Sherlock dropped the envelope back on the desk and resumed striding around the room, stepping up and over the chairs in his excitement. He wasn't really listening. "Thank you, _thank you_, John, again you have pointed me toward the data I needed!"

"Sherlock," John started. He didn't seem to be getting the detective's attention. Sherlock stopped circling the room and flopped full length on the couch. He closed his eyes. "Quiet, John, I want to remember this, this moment. This is life, life being _not_ boring. This is not living, this is _wanting_ to live. This, John," he said, suddenly swinging to a sitting position and looking at John intensely, "is _not being wrong_."

"I was rather hoping you would learn how to live with being wrong, like an ordinary mortal," John said dryly, "And now here you are telling me that bit of personal growth won't be necessary after all. So, please explain, but please don't say –"

"It's obvious," Sherlock was already saying, impatiently. "Now that the last piece has fallen into place."

"What, my visit with Lestrade?" John said, bewildered. "But nothing happened, nothing important was said."

Sherlock stood, serious now. "Something very important was said. Now, what did Lestrade say about my receiving the report? His exact words, please, as closely as you can remember them."

"Ah, well, he said … he knew you were keen on getting them, and, um, that he thought it must have cheered you up a bit to finally receive them," John said. "So?"

Sherlock said, "Ah. Good. John, think. Lestrade, _Detective Inspector Lestrade_, despite appearances, occasionally displays signs of intellect. He's dull, but he's curious, and occasionally he's even paying attention. When we were still at the further education school, he saw the evidence, _in situ_. The cabbie still holding one pill. Perhaps he had been about to take it when he was shot. A second pill, collected from the floor. Perhaps I had been holding that one. Why hold it? To take it, of course, as the other victims had. But why, he must have asked himself, why would Sherlock Holmes take a poisoned pill?"

Sherlock paced as he continued. "Was I forced into it? There was a fake gun on the floor, but he'd know I wouldn't be fooled by that. Why, in fact, would not only I, but also the cabbie, each have been about to take a poisoned pill, apparently willingly? Mutual suicide? Not likely, not me, in any case, as far as he knew – therefore at least one of the pills was _not_ poisoned, but harmless. No point in two harmless pills, therefore just the one. We'd each take a pill, but only one of us would die. A dare, then. I must have been dared into it, but willing to take the one I'd held, the one collected later from the floor, because I'd deduced that _that_ was the safe one."

"Are you sure? You don't usually think so highly of Lestrade's powers of deduction," John asked.

"What did happen to that evidence from the flat? I continue to walk free, therefore it hasn't been analyzed. It can't still be sitting around the station, therefore it has been disposed of before it can incriminate me, therefore Lestrade, the only person in the department with that authority." Sherlock said.

"Agreeing to that expensive analysis while we were at the school was a significant favor. He felt he owed me, then. Already regretting the raid on the flat, expressing gratitude for solving yet another case and stopping the murderer, all right. But it got his attention, my anxious conduct concerning the evidence and my request for its special handling. That must have suggested to Lestrade that perhaps the pill had not been harmless after all, that perhaps I had doubt about my analysis. It was Lestrade who saw that even the prospect of being wrong unsettled me. Lestrade understood that it wasn't just important to the case that the pill's contents be conclusively determined, but that it was important, crucially important, to me _personally_. Lestrade, who not only has a strong ongoing interest in making sure that I continue to be a free man, but also that I remain confident in my own skills.

"Lestrade, who took sole custody of that evidence, and oversaw its analysis. Lestrade, who saw the results before I did and who prepared the summary I saw. Lestrade, who imagined I'd be cheerful, not just to finally _receive_ the results, but to _read_ them."

Pulling out his mobile, he pressed the key that rang up Lestrade's desk, then put the speaker on so that John could hear. Lestrade's hearty voice came through. "Sherlock, good to hear from you, I -"

Sherlock cut him off. "The report. _Why_?" Looking over at John, he was already smiling.

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. "Because," Lestrade said reluctantly, "I didn't want you to be wrong."

-END-


	7. Acknowledgements

**Acknowledgements**

With love to my dear friend in the south, who will have recognized some conversational elements. She _matters_.

Thanks to Yukimura Hina, who in her excellent fanfic "For My Brother", about college-age Sherlock overcoming drug addiction, sent him to Cambridge University. Later I read that Dorothy Sayers had him as a chemistry student there.

Thanks to family members who vetted the story before posting, for being encouraging and making helpful suggestions, and for getting me started on "Sherlock" in the first place.

Thanks to the creative geniuses at work at the BBC, for bringing the Sherlock I knew and loved from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle so wonderfully into the 21st century, and for being tolerant of my own efforts to imagine more fun with the characters and situations they own. (It's their own fault for not providing us with more episodes, more quickly ...)

And finally, so, so much, thanks to you, my supportive readers! Without you this would all be just for my own personal amusement, not nearly so much fun :^)


End file.
